


Hesitation Change

by callmelyss



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Breathplay, Choking, Complicated Relationships, Dancing, Darth Tantrum and his Evil Space Ginger, Feelings, Galactic Domination, Grand Marshal Armitage Hux, M/M, Oral Sex, Political Marriage, Post-TLJ, Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, Under-negotiated Kink, Villains Villaining, Wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-15 23:37:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17538485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmelyss/pseuds/callmelyss
Summary: “I—" Kylo says. Meaning to explain. Except he doesn’t know that he can. Account for the impulse just now, to go against this precisely coordinated spectacle, to answer an unposed question, what it would feel like to kiss him in front of the entire expanse of known civilization, and, perhaps most pressingly, whether his lips are as soft as they look (softer).—The Supreme Leader marries his Grand Marshal.





	Hesitation Change

**Author's Note:**

> This fic started out, as so many do these days, as a thread on Twitter. Lots of love in general to team kylux and a shoutout in particular to [rmn_werefoxes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rmn_werefoxes) for the inspiration!
> 
> A hesitation change is a figure in a waltz.
> 
>  ****Update**** Now with art (!?!) from the unbelievably talented and brilliant wildfang ([twitter](https://twitter.com/wildfang_butts)/[tumblr](http://wildfang-art.tumblr.com)) and 5ovspades ([twitter](https://twitter.com/5ovspades)/[tumblr](http://5ovspades.tumblr.com)). So much giddy gratitude to them both. I swoon, I do.
> 
> Lastly, for those concerned, there is further explanation of the breathplay/choking/under-negotiated kink trifecta in the end notes.

How the galaxy will see it, flung across the Holonet after: the massive stage, seated with a thousand guests from a thousand worlds, the Supreme Leader’s fortress rising, imposing, forbidding, out of the cliff-face behind them, its sheer walls draped with those ubiquitous red banners bearing their emblem, now flying on half the inhabited planets between here and wild space, and the First Order’s newly constructed capital sprawling beyond it, legions of stormtroopers in pristine white armor, standing at perfect attention, twelve star destroyers just visible in the blue sky above, all of this, everyone, every eye in every system focused on the two men standing, facing each other on the dais in the middle of the stage. Both in black and red, all of it in black and red, and the Grand Marshal’s cape flutters in the breeze. His durasteel coronet, plain and razor-sharp, in stark contrast to his unusual hair. His chin tips upward just so, as he meets the Supreme Leader’s eyes, their union declared and finalized for all to see.

Then, Kylo kisses him.

Yes, it will be broadcast over and over, this moment and the ceremony preceding it, the celebration following. What no one will know: that Hux grunts in surprise when Kylo’s lips touch his, the way he stiffens at his hands on his waist, drawing him closer, and the moment, too, when he sighs and the taut bow of his mouth relaxes, giving, and he kisses him back, just as carefully, as chastely, canting his head to better reciprocate. On the visual record: how his eyes flutter shut, how he winds his arms around Kylo’s shoulders, how the two of them clutch at each other, unexpected. And the murmur that goes through the assembled sentients as this embrace goes on and on, far longer and far more tenderly than one would anticipate for a political marriage. 

It’s common knowledge, after all, among allies and enemies alike, that the Supreme Leader and the Grand Marshal, presently the Grand Marshal-Consort, have despised each other since they were merely Snoke’s enigmatic apprentice and the Order’s ambitious young General. This must be part of the show somehow, then, a declaration of a kind, or so the speculation will run. What it means, no one can decide. 

The onlookers don’t feel it, the shiver that goes through Hux. Don’t hear the quiet noise of protest he makes when they finally separate. Don’t see the wet look in his pale eyes as they meet Kylo’s, the tremor in his jaw, the flush on his cheeks. His confusion— _we weren’t going to do that, we agreed it was unnecessary, antiquated, why_ —churns in the Force, and underlying it: his anger, pricking, needlelike, a monomolecular blade pressed against an artery; the certainty he’s been had somehow, made to look weak; the accompanying humiliation, an unrelieved itch from head to foot; and, lastly, a pulse of something else Kylo can’t identify, the quiver of it like the exposed heart of a small, helpless animal in his palm. 

“I—" Kylo says. Meaning to explain. Except he doesn’t know that he can. Account for the impulse just now, to go against this precisely coordinated spectacle, to answer an unposed question, what it would feel like to kiss him in front of the entire expanse of known civilization, and, perhaps most pressingly, whether his lips are as soft as they look (softer). 

At the sound of his voice, or perhaps the clamor of the crowd around them, Hux straightens, his arms returning to his sides as though they’d never moved, never seized Kylo like a lifeline, his expression shuttering, blank, his eyes clearing, the wrinkle of his brow smoothing. Impassive. Composed. He turns, facing their people, lifting a hand to them, leaving Kylo no choice but to do the same. Their rings catch the light as they wave at the waiting masses, the ‘troopers with their raised fists, everyone watching, even the Resistance in whatever remote bolthole they’re calling sanctuary these days. The message clear: _the Order is one. Unassailable. Indivisible. The unification of the Dark Side and the Empire reborn._

Yes, that was the point.

* * *

 

Blurry hours follow, the vows and coronation only the beginning of the display, the Order’s wealth and power. The guests are ushered into the massive reception hall, the sort of cavernous room which serves no other purpose but to inspire awe. The two of them sit together on another stage, both isolated and as far from alone as they could be, in full view at all times and with an endless procession of dignitaries to greet. Hux’s posture remains perfect throughout the ordeal, his features schooled, although his mouth occasionally dips into that favored sneer. _Ah, your majesty, a pleasure to see you again, too, thank you for the well wishes_. _Yes, we will speak about that matter you mentioned earlier—_

He tenses only when Kylo lays a hand on his arm. Jerks it out of his grip as soon as he can do so without attracting notice. His thoughts move too quickly to track, the names of guests flicking through at a rapid pace, the task to which he’s currently devoting most of his attention. Below that the muddle of his feelings continues, disdain and irritation, familiar responses from Hux, but an unease, too, bubbling, frothy, _anxious_ , maybe even a species of dread that Kylo might touch him again.

He doesn’t.

Had the Order’s countless advisors and diplomatic officials made the suggestion, Kylo would have refused as a matter of course, as he does whenever they wring their hands about his manner or his dress or lack of rousing speech-making (he leaves that to Hux, still). But Olema Ren approached him well before the bootlickers raised the question of a co-ruler, a spouse. Olema had the most tenuous connection to the Force of any of his Knights; she relied mostly on her combat training, wielded twin vibroblades instead of a kyber weapon, and it was rare, if not unprecedented, for her to have visions. Therefore, when she murmured, _Master_ , _I have seen something about your future_ , he listened.

The councils and committees agreed readily; it would bolster morale for the Order to see one of their own sitting on the throne next to Kylo, for the bond between the Order’s technological might and Kylo’s more mystical agents to be both symbolized and formalized. _Not,_ they rushed to assure him, _that they don’t consider you to be their Supreme Leader, only, the perception, you understand, sir, the mystery of the Force, it makes it…difficult at times._

Kylo waved them off. Except for his people on the _Finalizer_ , few in the Order had ever seen him personally. He wasn’t one of them. He didn’t need to be. The Order was his; he’d taken it, simply, from Snoke.

 _The Grand Marshal would be a logical choice_ , they submitted. Cringing.  _But if the Supreme Leader prefers other options—_

 _No_ , he interrupted, maybe too quickly, too loudly. They tried his patience; that was all. _Hux is acceptable._ He added: _If he consents to the arrangement._  

He was confident he would. The only thing Hux would hate more than being bound to Kylo in any capacity was seeing one of his rivals in the Order elevated above him. 

He hadn’t bothered to insist that it _must_ be Hux, as Olema had seen it, the dominion the two of them would achieve over the galaxy, worlds kneeling at their feet before they even opened fire, genuflecting at their mercy. The Resistance ground to fine powder beneath his heel. His mother’s surrender, finally.

_Only with Hux?_

_With the Grand Marshal by your side, you will achieve your aims, my Master, I have seen it_.

The line ends—or only pauses. Kylo has done little more than nod in acknowledgement. No one expects anything further from him, not here. They are happy to have a chance to stare at him up close, see his scar, the crooked slash of his mouth, and to compare. _There’s something of her around the eyes, isn’t there?_ Much the way they had when he was a child with another name.

Attendants bring food and wine; he sets on both, if only for something to do. Hux, for his part, just takes a cautious sip from the heavy goblet in front of him. 

“You should eat something,” Kylo murmurs, drinking from his own cup.

“I’m not hungry,” he replies softly, although his intonation is as clipped as ever.

It’s not quite true. If Kylo concentrates, reaching out, he can feel the familiar clench in Hux’s guts. He has long believed he can run on tarine and stims alone and is  _always_ hungry, rather. Half-starved and anemic. Beyond that, however, there's a roil of nausea, also known, the way he feels before he gives a speech, even now, as well as queasiness at the prospect of unfamiliar food. The horror of being ill _in public_. Off rations as a cadet. A dish at a state dinner that disagreed with him. He’d missed his chance at a negotiation, set his plans for Starkiller back several months. 

“We can order something milder,” Kylo tries. Meaning to sound disinterested, as though it’s nothing. As though he isn’t— “A droid can fix it, if you’d prefer.”

Hux’s eyes widen, just perceptibly, before he clenches his jaw. “Thank you for your concern, Supreme Leader, but that isn’t necessary.” _Stay out of my mind, Ren_. _Those were the terms, remember._

He’d agreed to the plan without objection, seeing, as Kylo had known, an opportunity to wear the crown he desired, even if shared. _I have some conditions, of course_ , he added. Pragmatic ones, mainly. His secure position in the event the Supreme Leader abdicated or otherwise ceded his rule to another. The continuance of his title and role as Grand Marshal. An affirmation that Kylo had no claim to his person, as such, his thoughts, or his private affairs. His safety guaranteed. The resulting document read more like the declaration of a contentious alliance than a marriage contract, more provisions than concessions, but Hux signed it, stood next to him and said the right words, and that’s all that mattered. 

It outlined, too, the obligatory elements of the ceremony, per Imperial custom and First Order laws, some freshly written. _No need for them to touch more than the exchange of rings and circlets required._

(No need whatsoever to kiss him.)

There was, however, the matter of the dance.

He had expected Hux to argue against it; they’d done away with every other sentimental tradition, but he had only shrugged. _People dance at weddings, or so I’m given to understand. If you need to learn, there are sims, of course._

 _Do you—not need to learn_ , Kylo wanted to ask, stunned by the implication otherwise. 

The dance floor resembles that of the simulation near enough, polished stone, glittering lights from the levitating chandelier, the faceless throng of spectators ringing the empty space. Hux walks with him to the center of it all, matching his stride, as he has done all day, as he has always done; Major or General or Grand Marshal, he’s never failed to keep up with Kylo. Wouldn’t allow otherwise. At the middle of the room, they turn to each other, as they did earlier. Hux’s face pale, determined, as it was then. The durasteel of his crown glints in the dim. There, the lift of his chin, one of Hux’s tells, like the way his upper lip curls sometimes, how his nostrils flare. Always slightly defiant, even with Snoke. Or especially. _I will outlast you_ , Kylo had heard him think, hundreds of times, of their old master.

He has thought so about Kylo, too. Although not recently. Not today.

Hux steps into his arms as the music begins, his left hand going to Kylo’s shoulder, his right linking with his own, cape draped over his arm; Kylo’s free hand goes to his waist. It’s a waltz, a variation on an old Core World standard—he has hazy memories of a similar song from his own childhood—and they step into it easily, as though they’ve done this countless times before.

In a way, they have.

He hadn’t expected the sim to include Hux as a partner, was startled the first time the Grand Marshal appeared in front of him in a close approximation of the dress uniform he’s wearing now, expression neutral, waiting for him to begin the sequence. Then, Hux featured prominently in other simulations—it must have been easy enough to convert the data and apply it to this program for his benefit. The audio, too, was likely recycled from the ‘troopers training regimens, _Yes, very good_ and _would you like to try again?_

But no sim could have prepared him for feeling Hux under his hands, warm through his gloves and the layered fabric beneath, and real and substantial and above all _tense_ , that faint tremor going through him again. The program, too, had met Kylo’s eyes, while Hux seems keen to look anywhere but, studying his shoulder and the clasps of his tunic at turns, his head dipping, sweeping lashes lowered. He’s worrying his bottom lip slightly between his teeth, will gnaw it bloody if left to it. One of his tics.

Kylo chances leaning closer, not upsetting their balance—he’s practiced now, too, at talking and dancing—to murmur in Hux’s ear, “This isn’t like you.” When he sees his eyebrows twitch in confusion, he elaborates, “Bowing your head.”

Hux snorts, his amusement crumbling and dry, but at least he’s looking at Kylo now, his eyes gray in the low light, the color leeched from them. “You must not have been paying attention these past seven years, then. I’ve done more curtsying than I have commanding.”

Tempting to kiss him again, that full mouth, his lips so often thinned in irritation or concentration. (Or perhaps it’s intentional, to draw the eye away from them.) How they looked had surprised him earlier, not so severe, plush, inviting even, and he’d been—curious. He hadn’t thought Hux would, that _they_ would. Kylo shakes his head, knowing without the Force how he would respond to such a gesture now, that it would disrupt their dancing, make a scene. Not missing the bitterness in his voice either. Instead, he tells him, “I remember it differently.”

“Oh, really, Ren?” Hux asks. The corner of his mouth twitches. And Kylo prefers that, when he forgets to call him _Supreme Leader_ , to scrape, however insincerely. “How did you see me again? The phrase ‘ _greasy little sycophant_ ’ comes to mind.”

He would, of course, hold tight to every insult Kylo has ever casually flung at him, baiting him out of boredom or frustration or simply because he could. That fight, if he recalls correctly, had been about harvesting the kyber for Starkiller. A misuse of a precious resource in the hands of a nonbeliever. Careless, he had felt at the time. A waste.

Given the ignoble end of Hux’s superweapon, he doesn’t think he was _wrong_ , exactly, but it would be unwise to say so here. Or anywhere. Ever.

The planet had been a feat to eclipse the Death Star, however, so he admits, “Brilliant.” Then, thinking of everything that followed, he adds, “Vicious.” Even Snoke had thought so. And: “Proud.”

He might have handled Hux differently if he had known, if he realized earlier—

“Why, Supreme Leader,” he admonishes. Managing, as always, to make the title sound like a honeyed barb. “Such sweet nothings. What will people say?” His tone acerbic, but his cheeks have flushed again, belying the sarcasm, and _brilliant_ reverberates, winged, between his ribs. His fingers tremble on Kylo’s shoulder, but he doesn’t miss a step. Hasn’t. Neither of them has. 

“You’re good at this, too,” Kylo offers. It’s true. “Dancing. When’d you learn?”

Hux shrugs. “When I was a cadet. Fencing, waltzing, and riding. A proper Imperial officer knows how.” He snorts again. “Foolish, really, considering the circumstances. Teaching us to dance on half-junked star destroyers with no heat and no food. Assuming we’d—well, end up here, I suppose. Some grand event and the galaxy to impress.”

“ _Fencing_ ,” he echoes, raising both eyebrows. Trying to picture it and finding he can’t: Hux with a sword in his hand.

Of course, he doesn’t think many would have imagined Kylo Ren waltzing with the Starkiller at their wedding either.

(His mother—General Organa, wanted enemy of the Order—would be, _might be_ watching. Still.)

Hux shoots him an alarmed look. “Don’t get any ideas, Ren. I’m not about to face off against that hazard-waiting-to-happen you call a lightsaber. I plan to be rather farther away when it finally blows up in your face.”

Kylo almost laughs. That has always been Hux’s primary failing, these peculiar lapses into tactlessness, a potentially fatal inability to hold his tongue. He’s never managed the proper deference with him, even less so than with Snoke. It’s odd to be grateful for it, probably, though he is. “Vibroblades, then,” he suggests. “Or staffs.”

“You’ve ten kilos on me—easily.” As an afterthought, he adds a grudging, “Supreme Leader.”

“Fifteen. I’ll go easy on you, _Grand Marshal_.” He smirks.

Hux huffs, less put out than he’s affecting. Curious about what it would be like to fight Kylo. Thinking, too, that he should probably run a sim or two of his own first. Goaded, as intended. “If I must.”

They’re over halfway through the song now, and it’s nearly possible to forget how closely they’re being watched, this too recorded for broadcast across worlds and systems and sectors. To pretend momentarily that he’s back in the sim. Although that version of Hux was easier to talk to, argued less, listened better, didn’t insult him. “Before,” Kylo begins. _When I kissed you, when we—_

Hux flinches, seeing immediately what he means to say. Shakes his head, spasmodically. “I don’t want to talk about that,” he says. Voice sharp. _Panicked._ Then, more quietly: “Here.”

It would be easy, if not simple, to reach up and stroke his cheek, cede to the desire to soothe some of the anxiety there. But that, too, would draw attention. He tightens his hold on Hux’s waist instead, squeezing just above his hip. Hux's lips part in response, a quick intake of air, and his pupils expand, narrowing the corona of gray-green. His flush deepens. 

There had been that soft noise of complaint when they separated earlier, like a whine; Kylo shivers. “Later,” he suggests.

“Later,” he agrees. It almost sounds like a promise.

They’ve moved into the final turn when Hux clears his throat. “You didn’t ask. How I saw you.”

He remembers it, though, the then-General’s fury when they were named co-commanders of the _Finalizer_. Every terse meeting with Snoke, Hux all too pleased to outline his inadequacies in precise detail. His cold plotting following Crait, the lingering crunch of salt under his boots, in his hair. How closely the two of them had courted it, each other’s destruction, time and again, until Kylo, weary of looking over his shoulder, finally offered him a new fleet and a new title and a more attractive target. _Bring the galaxy to heel for me, Grand Marshal_. And now, this arrangement. Cementing all of it. Beginning their ultimate ascendancy, distant as it feels compared to Hux in his arms and the memory of holding him nearer still. “No, but I’m well aware,” Kylo reminds him. “You hardly kept those opinions to yourself. Destructive, difficult, abstruse, impulsive—"

Hux steps in close as they come to a halt, the final notes of the song sounding around them. His breath is warm on Kylo’s cheek; his lips brush it.  “Powerful,” he corrects him, murmuring. “Always that first, Ren.”

 

* * *

 

The night proceeds in a way he recognizes, vague recollections of this exact kind of function from long ago, how tedious it had been, the charm of the colors and the lights and the elaborate food wearing off well before it was time to go home. Here, at least, no one expects or requires his good manners; no one will chastise him for retreating while the dancing continues. No one would dare, except maybe Hux. He does not follow him, however, never remiss in his duties to the Order, and Kylo finds a reprieve in that, too, as well as the chance to watch him—dancing, at the moment, with the Governor of Kuat—and think. It’s not difficult to track Hux, even in the riot of fabric and metal, to find the coronet’s gleaming edge and his hair and his cape whirling, showing its red lining. Like a scene from an old holodrama.

He takes a steadying breath through his nose, finding his anchor in the Force, the bitter sea spray of the Dark, the glowing shadows of his Knights around him. Part of him wants to interrogate Olema, demand to know what else she saw in her vision. If. But she would have no reason to withhold anything from him, good or ill. And the Force is above all else unknowable. Luke hadn’t grasped the truth of it, the glory of his intentions, true balance, beyond Sith and Jedi. Rey hadn’t understood either; she chose the old, trite stories instead.

Kylo doesn’t need them.

They’ve marched across half the galaxy, laying claim to it, not finding the Resistance, only scorch marks from cold campfires, crumpled wrappers from ration bars, anti-Order graffiti, usually directed at him or Hux, Poe Dameron’s familiar handwriting. He’ll hunt them down, in the end, the last clinging vestiges of his mother’s cause. He’s sure of it now.

He told some of this to the simulated version of Hux, wanting to discuss it with someone other than his Knights; they were followers, not confidants, and wouldn’t leave room for his doubts, his questions. The simulation couldn’t answer back in any meaningful way, of course, but it gave the appearance of listening, provided the occasional filler response, and that helped. He had been sure to erase the logs afterward, a precaution, even though his turns in the sims required the highest clearance to access. Safer to leave no record of—he didn’t know what.

He feels Hux flagging before he reappears and sinks down next to Kylo with a sigh. Sweat shines at his temples. “Did you know Siniteen _only_ have left feet? Can calculate a jump across the bloody galaxy but can’t stay off your kriffing toes.” He raises an eyebrow, inquiring. “What is it?”

Kylo stands, offering him a hand. “Let’s go.”

“What?” Hux balks. “It’s only 2100, we can hardly leave now. This Sith-damned thing’s supposed to go until dawn.”

He shrugs. “It will whether we stay or not. They don’t need us. They’ll only get drunker from here. They won’t remember we’ve gone.”

“They’ll remember.” His forehead puckers. “They’ll talk.”

“Let them.” They've already given them reason.

Hux’s gaze flicks between his face and his outstretched hand. Finally, he takes it. “If it pleases the Supreme Leader,” he intones, allowing Kylo to help him to his feet, swaying slightly as he rises. Exhaustion and an empty stomach more than the wine and dancing.

A few heads do turn as they make their exit, walking the length of the hall, the night air blowing in from the open windows, their city beyond. He braces a hand under Hux’s arm, steadying him. Nods at the two Knights, Vijin and Olema, intimidating in their robes and helmets, posted at the tall doors. _We’re not to be disturbed_ , he tells them. Adds, _And send a droid for some food, please_. _Nothing exotic_.

Hux sags slightly when they’re clear of the room and watching eyes, more of his weight falling onto Kylo, though it still requires little effort to hold him upright. Even so. “Do you need to be carried?”

A long, silvery blade, nearly invisible, extends from Hux’s sleeve in answer; the tip prods Kylo’s thigh. “Inadvisable,” he replies. “It would be a poor beginning to our nuptials if I had to maim you.”

 _Proud_. Inevitably.

Kylo releases him and takes a step back, raising his hands. “You came to our wedding armed, Hux?”

“What if there had been an assassination attempt?” he asks, eyes widening in a parody of concern.

“What if, indeed.”

He slides the weapon back into place and straightens his cuffs. “Please, I haven’t conspired to kill you since the Corellia offensive.”

“You’ve been too busy.” He’s made sure of it.

Hux yawns. “Quite so.”

They make their way down the corridor together, not speaking, not quite touching, Hux’s thoughts an indistinct thrum on the edge of his own. The fortress is quiet, abandoned except for the beep and rattle of the occasional droid. The ‘troopers are having their own celebrations in the streets tonight—attendance had been by lottery with the rest of the fleet standing guard or deployed. Neither he nor Hux would have been unhappy if the Resistance accepted the bait to attack today, venturing this deeply into First Order territory, but there was nothing in the cycles leading up to this and little sign of them at all in recent weeks. 

The lift takes them to the very top, their city a glittering sprawl below. They stand at the intersection of the two wings, his apartments to the left, Hux’s to the right. They have rarely seen each other here since the construction, too preoccupied with their own work to spend much time in the capital. 

Hux lingers, studying him. “Well, then. Shall I bid you good evening, Supreme Leader?”

It’s not an idle inquiry, Kylo can tell from his expression, the hesitation there. Uncharacteristic. _Later_ , they had said. And he could let Hux go, no doubt back to his offices to review reports or monitor troop movement in the Outer Rim. They could forget it, what happened earlier, as much as they’re able, as much as anyone will let them, and proceed as planned, businesslike, unaffected by this. 

“If you would join me,” he replies. Guarded. “We have—matters to discuss.”

He considers this. Nods. 

“But if you’d like to,” Kylo stumbles briefly over the thought. Gestures at his gloves, his cape, the stiff fabric of his tunic and jodhpurs. “If you’d be more comfortable.”

Hux glances down at his uniform, bemused. Likely he forgot he was wearing it, knowing him. “I suppose. Yes. I’ll be with you momentarily.”

“On the balcony.”

Kylo peels off his gloves as he enters his chambers, the left catching on the unfamiliar obstruction of his ring. It’s durasteel, highly refined but otherwise unremarkable, to match Hux’s coronet. He removes his own circlet and sets it in its resting place next to his grandfather's helmet. Blood red stone. Not kyber, but a distant cousin, more inert, less valuable. The slick edge of it catches the light. 

He strips out of his heavy robes in favor of leggings, a sleeveless shirt, what he might wear to meditate or spar or sleep. It’s a warm enough night. He directs the droids out to the balcony when they arrive with covered dishes. Gruffly, as though they might question him. Although they don’t.

Hux does when he arrives, wearing a long black robe over what look to be standard-issue off-duty clothes, loose pants and a soft shirt with the Order’s emblem on the collar, both in charcoal gray. “What’s all this?” he demands, suspicious, surveying the chaise and the low table with its cluster of chairs as though an X-wing might pop out from under them.

“Food,” Kylo explains, impatient. “It’s a common custom on most inhabited planets.”

Hux rolls his eyes. “Yes, but why?”

 _You didn’t eat_ feels far too telling, and it’s like that with Hux, as though he’s always engaged in a debate he’s in danger of losing. “It’s not a trick, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he says instead. “Sit.”

He obeys, at least, perching on the edge of a chair while Kylo uncovers the dishes. Plain food, as requested, although of better quality than they serve on a star destroyer, meal bread and soft cheese and fruit (the latter from Naboo), a pitcher of water, and a carafe of wine. He assembles a plate, pours a glass of water, handing both to Hux, who’s staring at him, before fixing his own.

“It’s not poisoned.” He doesn’t quite manage to make it sound like a joke. Takes a bite of bread and a gulp of water to demonstrate.

He shakes his head, scoffs quietly. “No. You wouldn’t.” _If you wanted to get rid of me, you’d just throttle me with your Force, wouldn’t you, Ren?_ But he picks up his own slice of bread, mirroring the gesture. Nibbles at the edge.

 _Like you wouldn’t try to shoot me at the first opportunity_ , Kylo thinks, wry.

Hux does laugh now, and it’s a moment before he realizes he must have projected the thought back, a second conversation. “I haven’t, though,” he reminds him. “Not since the _Supremacy._ ”

“And I haven’t either,” Kylo says, meeting his eyes. “Not since the _Supremacy_.”

He holds his gaze for a long moment, confusion and wariness rolling off him, the twitching of insect’s wings, and then something calmer, like understanding. Or maybe consideration. “No, I suppose you haven’t done.” He takes a larger bite of bread, chews and swallows. Looks away. 

“I thought today went well,” Kylo offers. Picking at his own food. His appetite waning.

“Yes. Quite a few neutral systems in attendance. Perhaps the mid-Rim colonies are starting to see sense.”

“Perhaps.” He pours some wine for himself. Sips it, before adding. “This could be the beginning of something.”

“You think so?” Hux leans forward, eyes bright, avid. His interest genuine. The only thing they’ve ever agreed on is the need to conquer. In Snoke’s absence, they’ve had that, at least. Common ground of a kind.

“I do.” Kylo glances away. Swirls the deep red liquid in his cup. Adds, quietly, although he knows he’ll hear: “I’ve seen it.” Or, close enough. The particulars are unimportant. Only—maybe.

That earns him a scowl. Unsurprising. “With the Force.”

“Yes. A new age. And the two of us. Ruling.”

“The two of us,” Hux echoes carefully. “Another Vader and another Tarkin, I’ve heard it said. Not an unflattering comparison.” He preens.

Kylo shakes his head, dismissing this. Not that he deems his grandfather’s legacy unimportant, only— “Beyond that. Something more.”

His mouth twists. A smile. _Amused_. “More than the Empire?”

“Yes,” he repeats, simply. Willing him to understand. He leans forward, reaching out now, daring to touch his cheek, the skin smooth under his fingertips, encouraging Hux to meet his gaze again. “Do you believe that? That we can achieve it—together?”

He’s frowning again, not the distaste from earlier. Troubled. “What is this, Ren?” he asks. “What are you telling me? What did you mean by that before?“

_Why did you kiss me?_

“I. I don’t know.” Kylo falters, his hand falling. He startles when Hux reaches for it, covering it. The red stone of his ring stands out, stark, on his third finger. _You didn’t take it off._

“Was it to do with this vision of yours?” Hux persists, as though he hasn’t spoken. “The way you saw us, it had to be this way? We had to be.” He swallows. “Ah. Intimate?”

And there is, always, Hux’s willingness to do whatever necessary to achieve his ends. Kylo could tell him that this would assure their final victory and he’d agree to it, all of it, anything he asked, as surely as if he controlled his mind.

But that isn’t what he wants.

“No.” He shakes his head again. It isn’t, that he knows, the will of the Force. It didn’t feel that way, inexorable. Destined. Outside of him. (And even then—with Rey—it hadn’t mattered. Wasn’t real.) “Only this, the arrangement we’ve made. It’s enough.” His admission clear enough: _I_ _want this_. _You. For myself._  

Kylo hadn’t known, before he stood opposite him earlier, his eyes sea green in the sunlight, his hair coppery bright, the set line of his jaw, equal parts haughty and afraid. Kylo hadn’t known, hadn’t understood. His face feels as naked now as it did then.

It’s soft, Hux’s mouth against his. He cradles Kylo’s cheek with his right hand. This kiss no more aggressive than the first. Tentative. He hadn’t thought. Hux echoes him, unwittingly: _I didn’t think it would be like this_. That flicker through him again, delicate, shivering, _nascent_. Or maybe it shivers through Kylo. Both of them. He can’t tell. He’s distracted by the way Hux brushes his hair behind his ear, the encouraging noise he makes when Kylo relaxes, their knees brushing, the simple taste of him, water and bread and tangy fruit and whatever he used to clean his teeth.

Hux is watching him, contemplative, when they part this time, expression clear, and he feels settled, _resolved_ through the Force, the perfect clockwork tick of his thoughts, how they manifest when he’s made a decision, when he’s confident in a calculation or a flight maneuver.

Maybe he’s misunderstood, if. “It’s not,” Kylo tries to make clear. “You don’t have to. We don't.”

“Quiet,” Hux orders. Climbing onto him now, into his lap, straddling Kylo’s thighs, letting his slight weight drop onto him, like this is routine. He smirks, adding a dry, “Supreme Leader,” before he kisses him again, humid, sloppy, openmouthed, his arms curling around his neck. He sighs when Kylo skims his palms down his back, touching him through thin fabric. 

 _To think, this is all I needed to do to make you tractable,_ he thinks. Deliberate. Intentional. For him to hear. Gloating. _Didn’t think your sort indulged in it. Or I would have sooner._

 _Careful, Hux_ , he sends back. At the same time, lets one hand drift lower. Squeezes. Earning a squirm and a moan, more plaintive than he would have thought. But then, Hux hasn’t had much opportunity to indulge himself either. “This doesn’t mean you’ve won,” he mumbles. 

“On the contrary,” Hux breathes. Biting at him. “ _We’re_ winning. The galaxy’s ours for the taking. As you said. Might as well enjoy ourselves.”

Kylo can’t disguise the shudder that goes through him at this declaration. “You don’t,” he tries to object between hard kisses, almost bruising, unable to take his attention from Hux’s lips. “Believe in the Force. You never have.”

“No,” Hux agrees. He slides cool fingers down his chest, smoothing his shirt. Traces the edge of a nipple, teasing. “But I felt it today. Our people. The fleet. Everyone’s eyes on us. It felt—"

“Powerful,” Kylo recalls. Grinding up against him when he pinches him. His cock thickening between them.

“ _Yes_.” He rolls his hips, down, meeting it. Close to hard himself. “Like standing on Starkiller. Giving the order.”

“Like cutting down Snoke.” And the fight after. He’d never felt stronger than in that moment, the pure relief of his Master’s hand slipping from his nape.

Hux stills on top of him at that. “So you did. Kill him, I mean.” He doesn’t look at all concerned or surprised. Only—intrigued. Wondering.

Kylo shrugs. “You always suspected, didn’t you?”

“Of course. It’s what I would have done, what I _planned_ to do at the proper time. But you insisted on your absurd fabrications for so long. The girl. I thought you’d never admit it. Why—" He straightens slightly, leaning back to look at him, although he leaves one arm crooked around his neck. “Why, are there to be no more secrets between us now that we’re married, Ren? Is that it?” He grins.

 _Now that we’re married_ shouldn’t matter to him at all. A formality only, that’s what it was. Except Hux is still wearing the ring. In private. And so is he.

He wraps an arm around Hux’s waist, drawing him flush, watching his eyes widen. His teeth catch his lower lip again. Although not from anxiety. “And if I said there weren’t?”

“You’ve always had the advantage in that arena, remember.” He taps his temple. “Anything you’d like to know, I assume you can pry loose.”

“It isn’t that simple,” Kylo protests. _You don’t understand the Force_ , he doesn’t bother to add. He’s never cared to try. “Or that easy.” At least, not to extract information and leave the mind whole. Tearing, shredding, leaving a whimpering mess—that he could do with little effort, as Hux has witnessed often enough.

“Ask me, then.” He tilts his head, dropping wet kisses along Kylo’s jaw, down his neck, leaving cooling saliva in his wake. He resumes making that slow circle on his chest, massaging him and plucking at him in turns.

He groans at the attention, at the ache and the pressure against his cock, too, his hips jerking. “Do you really want this?” _Me._ “This. Not for some advantage.”

“Ren. I command half a million souls, a fleet of three dozen Resurgent-class destroyers, the mightiest the galaxy’s yet seen. There’s not a sentient from here to uncharted space who doesn’t know and fear the name Starkiller. You’ve declared me co-ruler over the Empire reborn, made me Grand Marshal in my own right, given me a voice among your most trusted advisors—all without me having to sit on your cock for the privilege. What other advantage could I possibly hope to gain in doing so aside from a well-deserved fuck on the eve of our victory?” He arches an eyebrow and folds his arms. His mouth screws to the side, impatient.  _Is it so difficult to believe I want you, too?_

“You meant to overthrow me once.” 

“You would have done the same in my place,” Hux replies, unrepentant. “I thought you would bring us to ruin, after Crait. You didn’t.”

“High praise, Grand Marshal.”

“My apologies, Supreme Leader.” He sounds almost sincere. Writhes in Kylo’s lap, suggestive. “Should I better demonstrate my appreciation for your vision and leadership in these difficult times?”

He groans, trying to hold back a whimper. “Please do.”

Hux coaxes him to lie back on the chaise and reaches to pull his tank over his head. Snorts at Kylo’s wary expression and shrugs out of his robe to reveal his narrow wrists and bare arms, pointed, showing the absence of his monomolecular blade. He removes his own shirt for good measure, exposing his flushed chest, his dog tags swinging free, and the jut of his ribs above the slight curve of his belly, everything usually concealed by sharp, stark lines now on display. He lets Kylo touch him and indulges in the same, tracing the muscles from his pectorals to his abdomen, until his fingers travel down the scattering of hair above his waistband. He smiles before tugging at his leggings, freeing his cock, taking it in his left hand, the circle of metal there shockingly warm on his skin.

“Tell me,” he says on the first stroke. “How it felt—killing our former Master. Did he realize?”

“No,” Kylo gasps. Arching into his grip. “He thought he’d won.” 

“Until you cut him in half.” His eyes glitter, not leaving Kylo’s as he pumps him. “What was it like, Ren? Seeing the look on his face? The shock. It was still there when I found him.”

He's never asked, what Hux saw while he was unconscious, the ship splitting in two around them. What he thought.

“Like I could breathe again. Like I could see everything—so clearly. Like I was. _Ah_. Unstoppable. And. More than he ever said. Better. Stronger.”

“That’s right.” Hux leans down to kiss him, messy. Trailing more down his neck, his chest, pausing to suck hungrily at one nipple, than the other. “He underestimated you, didn’t he? He thought he knew.”

“ _Fuck_. Yes. He was wrong. About everything.” _About you, too_.

Hux can’t hear this, of course, although he seems to know anyway, bending to take Kylo’s cock in his mouth in response, sucking at the crown before pressing on, his throat relaxing around him as he bobs his head. He hums his assent when Kylo sinks his hands into his hair. Not so severely styled today, fringe neatly combed back but not slicked down with its usual pomade. Almost soft. He spares a moment of regret that Hux isn’t wearing his circlet—that would have been a view, Hux bowed over his cock, the metal gleaming in his hair, his cheeks hollowing, eyes drooping shut as Kylo fucks his mouth. 

Another time, perhaps.

Soon, too soon, he can feel the telltale pressure in the base of his cock, and he eases Hux off of him, gently tugging, not wanting this to end just yet. His endurance—well, it’s been some time.

Hux looks up at him, pupils fat, lips swollen and shiny with spit, face flushed, oozing self-satisfaction, and Kylo drags him on top of him to kiss him soundly, gulping down his noise of surprise like wine. His moan, too, when he reaches into his pants to cup his ass, trace his rim, the heat of it, of him, nothing more intimate than this.

“Permission to ride the Supreme Leader’s cock,” Hux murmurs when they part.

His throat clicks when he swallows. “Granted.” He pauses. “But. Would it be better?” _Inside. The bed._ Their bed, after a fashion. Although that wasn’t in the conditions.

Hux shakes his head. “I want to see our city.” As if in answer, there’s a crackle of fireworks below. “And our ships.” They’re clearer now, in the night sky above them, those distinct arrowheads.

“I don’t have—"

He leans back and reaches into his robe pocket, retrieving a small tube; the pink on his cheeks darkens. “I wasn’t being presumptuous. That’s, ah. Where I keep it.”

“Lonely nights, Hux?” Kylo asks. Not taunting. Almost lamenting. They could have, maybe. He runs a hand down his side, wondering.

“No more than you, I imagine.” He slides off his pants—narrow hips, lithe, pale legs, a pretty cock, pink and short and fat—and pauses to drape them over the end of the chaise with his shirt and robe. Divests Kylo of his leggings, too, before settling back on top of him, knees splayed. “Mm. Here. Would you? I prefer it beforehand.”

He slicks his fingers before dipping them between his cheeks, stroking him, teasing slightly, then pushing one inside. “Like this?”

Hux rocks back against his hand, taking it deeper. Rumbles, pleased. “Ah, _ah_ , yes. Yes, that’s good. Very good. You can—I’m not a novice. It’s all right.”

Kylo obliges him with another finger, thrusting both in and fucking him steadily, feeling that heat, the velvet slide of muscle against his skin, contracting. Tracking the way his eyes close, his lips part, his quiet moan. Like he’s never seen Hux. His cock twitches against his belly, neglected. But he wouldn’t mind, he thinks, going on this way, watching him fall apart, bit by bit, so unlike how he looked earlier, untouchable, sacrosanct in his uniform. This is something else, someone else, Hux rendered in a different medium, nothing of the usual tempered metal, cut plasteel, inky gaberwool.

But Kylo couldn’t have expected this, any of it, even with the Force. Not Hux writhing on his fingers when he touches him the right way. Not how eagerly he kisses him afterward. Not at all how he sinks onto him, legs trembling, or the way it seems to punch the air from him, or how he stills, panting, when he’s fully seated, flush against Kylo now, hands braced on his stomach, quaking. “ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes and rocks, experimentally. Twitching around Kylo’s cock. Acclimating.

Hux lifts up and almost off him, then descends again, the drag, friction— _perfect_.

He increases the pace after that, bouncing slightly as he does, dog tags jingling, and Kylo groans and grabs his hips, thrusting up to meet him, the sound of it loud, unmistakable, like the whole city might hear them, the whole galaxy. And good. They saw before, thought they knew what it meant, that cold picture in front of them in the afternoon light. They thought they understood, but they couldn’t have. Couldn’t have understood this. Something easing in Kylo, _finally_. And not preordained, not the ineffable circumvolutions of the Force, not the Order’s intricate machinations either. Something simpler.

Hux had stood in front of him earlier, accepted the crown Kylo placed on his brow. Repeated the words. Loyalty. Dedication. Order. His voice clear and steady, chin raised. Had taken the ring on his hand, offered one to Kylo. It had never struck him before, or not so strongly, how green his eyes were. The soft, full curve of his mouth. Like something he could touch. Or kiss.

It had only been an impulse.

Hux leans down to kiss him again now, his pleasure rippling through Kylo, too, and he keens when he fucks into him harder, faster now, holding his hips still.

Surprise washes cold through Kylo when Hux’s hands fall on his throat and circle it, his thumbs resting in the hollow. He looks down at him, still taking him. His expression neither cruel nor tender. Inquiring. _May I?_

Kylo nods. Reaches up to cover Hux’s hands with his own. Doesn’t pull them away. Squeezes before releasing them. _Yes_.

Hux smiles, showing all his teeth. His grip tightens. Not too hard, not all at once. Kylo bucks under him, instinctive, but doesn’t throw him off. He wheezes slightly, cock starting to throb harder in Hux. His airway narrowing gradually, the pressure steady, Hux concentrating. His face blurs as Kylo’s eyes fill with tears. He’s aware, vaguely, of Hux leaning forward, putting more of his weight onto one hand, the other moving between them as he touches himself, whining, moaning. He can’t keep track of it all: Hux hot around him, the blood pulsing in his head and cock, the rattle in his windpipe, Hux’s ring digging into his skin, his orgasm building, cresting, and Hux’s, the crackle and cheer of the celebrations below them, the mix and murmur of it all, and above all of it, Hux’s voice in his ear, _Ours, all of it, the two of us, the galaxy on its knees, we’re going to win, Ren_.

He loses all of it then. Only pleasure remaining. 

Air is coming freely back into his lungs when he can think again, his throat aching, his head, too, his limbs heavy. “Here,” Hux is saying, lifting a glass to his lips. “Drink this.” He obeys. Water, clear and cool. 

He’s sitting next to him, robe pulled around him, otherwise still naked, his chest exposed, dog tags silvery against his skin. Hair tousled, falling over his face. Something diffident, almost shy, in the way he dips his head. “That was satisfactory, I trust.”

“Yes.” Kylo raises a hand, caresses his cheek, then the unmarred line of his neck. He toys with his tags, feeling rather than reading the information imprinted on them, _A. Hux_ , his rank and serial number, his date of birth. If he pressed his thumb against the metal, he could push them into his skin, those letters and numbers, the precise texture of them, Hux distilled in three lines. He settles, instead, for reaching for Hux’s left hand, finding the ring there, spinning it idly on his finger. “For you, too?”

He traces the bruises on Kylo’s throat with his right hand, ghosting his knuckles along the tenderness there, gentle. Draws his thumb over his lower lip. Accepts a kiss to the calloused pad of it. “Very much so.” He laughs. “I suppose that’s, ah. This consummated, then. I hadn’t imagined.”

“Do you mind it?” Kylo asks. Still fidgeting with Hux’s ring. Not quite able to ask: _why did you leave it on? Why did you kiss me back? Why did you agree to it, any of it?_ “This.”

He pauses, thinking, the familiar configuring and reconfiguring of his thoughts. Unfolding. Exponential. Geometric. “No. It’s. It seemed a reasonable price to pay. And now—" He shrugs. “I don’t mind it.” He looks, searching, first at Kylo, then down the length of the balcony. Suddenly pensive. 

Trying to determine what’s next.

“Would you—" He doesn’t know how to ask, shifts slightly to the side, making room. _Come here._

Hux lifts both eyebrows, but acquiesces, settling down next to him, not objecting to Kylo’s hand on his waist, or the way he links their fingers, or that he kisses him again, softly. Below them, there’s music in the streets, the city they built, a new capital, a new center to the galaxy, theirs and them. In the sky above, everything that remains, the distant stars of unconquered worlds, systems bending, not yet bowed. And somewhere: their surviving opposition, scrabbling, desperate. All of that, soon, yes. 

But for now, there’s only the faraway melody of a waltz, the pop and fizzle of fireworks bursting in the dark below, the give of Hux’s mouth under his—and too, the edge, the threat of teeth, still—the yet-strange weight of the ring on his left hand, and all it means and might come to mean.

**Author's Note:**

> Re: the under-negotiated kink/breathplay/choking tags. While they're having sex, Hux introduces the possibility of breathplay by putting his hands on Kylo's throat (without constricting his air). They have not discussed this, but Kylo does have the opportunity to refuse. He consents; Hux chokes him; everyone is subsequently happy with the situation. (Hux's motives for choking Kylo are reasonably in question, of course, given their history.)
> 
> —
> 
> Thank you for reading! Say hi on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/callmelyss1). <3


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